


Stress Fractures

by DancingInTheDark85



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Drama, Friendship, Gen, John Reese Whump, Mental Whump, Physical Whump, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vintage Team Machine, with flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 07:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13969875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingInTheDark85/pseuds/DancingInTheDark85
Summary: John is throwing himself into his work, as always, to the detriment of his health. When a new number seems to remind him of traumatic events in his past, his friends are worried about him. At least this time he knows who he can trust. An angsty casefic drama starring vintage Team Machine. Set in early Season 2. John whump... obviously.





	1. Chapter 1

Stress Fractures  
Chapter 1

2009 - Islamabad, Pakistan

"John! I thought you'd died!"

In his usual understated fashion, John Reese just shrugged. Truth was, sometimes he felt like he had died, the John that Khaled Hussein knew had anyway. "That was kinda the idea," he offered.

"Man, the others all said that you'd been transferred to some sort of covert ops. More covert even than Delta. But the guys tried calling you to catch up, tried looking you up, and nothing. We all feared the worst."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I'm not great at staying in touch," he joked lamely. To be honest, it was true, he'd always been bad at it, but now it was obvious he'd had little choice in the matter.

"Look, as touching as this reunion is, we need to get down to business," Kara Stanton said coldly, arms folded across her chest and leaning against the door frame. She'd picked her pose carefully, with one hip jutting out, so that the stance looked sassy and in control rather than gentle or relaxed. She was dressed similarly to John, jeans, dark boots and a long sleeved tee shirt, loose enough to conceal a weapon under in the small of her back. She had a navy scarf around her shoulders which she used to cover her hair when she was outside. The scarf had tassels and a few little stars embroidered onto it, but it didn't make the woman appear any less severe and intimidating.

John had tried to appear less aggressive, the sleeves of his pale blue Henley were scrunched up to his elbows, it was an attempt to seem more relaxed, the colour he'd chosen was calm and non-threatening, the bare skin of his tanned forearms was supposed to suggest he had nothing to hide. It was all subtle manipulative tactics which Kara had taught him but that she herself rarely bothered with.

"Who's she?" Khaled asked, indicating the woman.

"Kara, she's my partner. Don't worry, she always looks like someone just pissed in her cereal," he teased at the woman's frown. Kara really did only have two facial expressions, resting bitch face, or a sweet and innocent smile. Of the two, John found the smile scarier.

Khaled ignored her then and turned back to John, "you know I don't want to do this," he said, urgently, now that they were down to talking business.

"I know," John frowned, he didn't want to do this either, and yet here they were, "if I thought there was another way then I would have made them take it." He didn't have that kind of authority, but it helped for them to believe you did.

"It's dangerous," he said, and John nodded in agreement. "If I'm caught they'll hurt my family."

"I'm going to get your family out of here." John promised, "they need to stay in place for now. If we move them now, they'll know something is up. But I can put a covert security detail on them until we're done, and then I promise, we'll get you all out of here. How does a new life in America sound?"

"It sounds like something I was promised once before," Khaled pointed out as he started to pace the dingy room of the apartment they'd commandeered for this meeting. "I worked as a Special Forces translator for five years John. You guys would come and do your tour, and go home and I would still be there. Mission after mission. I couldn't even leave the base because it was too dangerous, I didn't get to see my wife and kids in all that time! But I did it because we'd been promised a better life. But your government lies, John. They got us out of Afghanistan, but not to America like they promised, they just dumped us here instead. Some days I think we would have been better staying where we were."

John allowed Khaled to see how upset that made him, "I didn't know about that until I was on my way here," he assured. It was the truth, and yet when he'd read it in the briefing, he hadn't been surprised. "But I promise you, this time will be different."

"Why?"

"Because they need you, because they flew me half way round the world to come and work with you, knowing I'd be the only one you'd trust. And because they did that knowing I would never let them get away with that again. You and your family deserve to be safe. I can make that happen for you, but you have to do this one thing for me." John hated himself as he said it, it made him feel sick, manipulating the man in that way. But this was his job now, he supposed, doing things that made him feel sick, so that no one else had to do them instead.

"You always were too righteous for your own good John." Khaled said, and Kara in the background sniggered. "And you drag everyone down this righteous bloody path with you."

John could only nod at that in acceptance, he was almost disappointed when the Afghan soldier's next words were, "But we all used to follow because we trusted you. I'll do this, but only for you. It's one thing, and then you have to get me and my family out of here."

"I promise," John said. And he meant it, more than anything since he'd joined the CIA.

He was about to get into sharing the details he'd memorised on the plane, when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He could never explain this response, but he'd learned not to question it. "Khal, are you sure you weren't followed?"

He strode over to the window and peered behind the blanket that had been hung as a curtain. He pulled the Glock from his waistband and flicked the safety off.

"No! John, you know I know better than that. There was no one following me I swear!"

Kara had learned to trust what she'd dubbed John's 'sixth sense' as well, and she'd made for the door, weapon drawn, checking through the peephole for intruders.

John scanned the street below and the windows on the building opposite. Khaled came and stood beside him, his voice now at a whisper, "What is it?"

"Not sure," John said softly, "but we're getting out of here." He was about to turn away to make their escape when he saw it. A window in the building opposite was opened and the glint of metal shone in the sun. "RPG! Go!" he shouted, shoving Khaled away from the window. He threw his own window open and aimed for where he knew the wielder of the weapon would be. He got off a couple of shots, but he was too late, and suddenly there was a thunk accompanied by a whoosh of the grenade being shot straight at them.

John spun on his heels and dove away from the window. As he did he saw that Khaled had refused to leave without him. He only had enough time to grab his friend and tackle him to the ground, shielding him with his body as the impact hit the building and the nearest wall crumbled, showering them in dust and lumps of concrete.

It had been accompanied by a bang and a flash of heat, that stunned John momentarily and he stayed down covering his head with his hands, tucking Khaled's head in under his arm, good thing too, as a large piece glanced off his bicep. He shook it off and blinked the dust out of his eyes. "Khal, go!" he croaked, barely an inch from the other man's face. He rolled his weight off the other man and gave him another shove, to shake him out of his ear-ringing shock.

Khaled scrambled to his hands and knees and then turned to John, gripping his hand to help haul him to his feet, when there was another thunk-whoosh sound. There was no time to react before the second grenade exploded.

John wasn't sure if he'd blacked out but suddenly Kara was there. She clenched her fist into the collar of his shirt and hauled him to his feet, getting him moving in staggering steps before he could even blink the blood and dust from his eyes.

"We have to go back," he stopped at the doorway, shouting over the ringing in his ears.

Kara shook her head, frustrated that John had picked this moment to stop, "Reese, there's nothing left of him. Your asset is dead, if you don't want to join him we need to move."

Kara pushed him through what was left of the door. As she did, John looked back into the room and saw the devastation. The wall had come down, exposing the room to the street. Some of the floor had fallen in had left a gaping chasm to the apartment below. The hole was where Khaled had been, and all that was left of him was the arm that John had been holding.

John resisted the urge to throw up or cry and willed his legs to move as he allowed his partner to lead him out into the street and towards their getaway vehicle.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
2012 - New York City

John's phone pinged and he brought it out and looked down at it for the photograph that had just been sent through. They'd barely finished with one number when Harold had informed him they'd been given another. He'd spent all last night running round town and being vaguely threatening to people in order to get enough evidence to hand over to Lionel, all he wanted was to go home and sleep. Instead he wasn't even being given a chance to get back to the Library.

He stepped into a coffee shop and ordered a triple shot cappuccino as Harold gave him the details. "Mustafa Jabir, 35, Pakistani national, here on a work visa. Moved to the States 3 years ago and has been staying with his aunt and uncle in Queens, he's a lab technician at the local hospital."

John stirred half a gallon of sugar into his drink and then gave it an experimental sip before adding a bit more. "Any leads so far? Why did he come Stateside?"

He could hear Harold frowning at that, "Wouldn't you if you had the opportunity? He's not a terrorist Mr Reese, if he was he'd be on the relevant list."

John quashed the pang of anger at the assumption of his thought processes before he spoke, "He's thirty-five, has no family of his own, turbulence in Pakistan is nothing new, and now he's obviously in trouble or his name would not have come up. It's not unreasonable to ask why he picked the time he did to make the move."

"Erm, well, yes." Harold stuttered. "Let me get back to you, I'll send you his address."

The address pinged through, John took an invigorating sip of coffee and headed off to the address he'd been given. He was trying not to get annoyed about Harold's last comment. Generally the pair of them got on well, despite having vastly different personalities, but every so often Harold's desire to see good in everyone clashed with John's constant cynicism. And sometimes it was just that they were tired, sleep deprived and spent entirely too much time together.

He drove out to Queens with the window down and singing along quietly to the radio in an attempt to keep himself alert and awake. His earpiece buzzed and he tapped it to answer the call, "Hey Finch, what have you got for me?"

But the voice on the line wasn't the billionaire, "Good morning John," Joss Carter sounded like she was in a good mood. "Is that Journey? Have you been rocking out in the car again? And do you ever listen to anything from this century?"

John ignored the comment, unwilling to admit that he had been, and turned the music down slightly, but not off, because that would be sacrilege. "Can I help you Detective?"

"I can't just phone my favourite vigilante for a chat?"

John rolled his eyes, she was far too perky this morning, "I guess, but when have you ever done that?"

"True, John are you okay? You sound... off."

"Just tired," he admitted.

"Finch working you pretty hard huh? Well don't worry, I'll find a way to deal with it myself."

"No, I'm fine, what do you need?"

"I was hoping you'd join me for a drink later, I could really do with someone to bounce this case off of, and I think it might have HR ties. Fusco's gone up to Boston for a wedding so I didn't really want to call him. That's if he makes his flight this morning, and he tells me it's you to blame if he doesn't. He's got a whole week of family gatherings and sports games lined up."

John smiled, wearily, "Yeah, sure. I'll do my best to be there. A beer would be nice but at this rate you might have to bring me coffee to my stake out."

"It's a deal," she agreed. "I'll call you after my shift and see how you're getting on. Have a good day, oh, and John?"

"Yes?"

"Don't stop believing!" she teased with a laugh before hanging up.

John had a certain pang of guilt at the thought of causing Lionel to miss his flight, but reasoned that no police officer in their right mind would book a flight the morning after their last night shift. Murphy's Law would guarantee inescapable overtime. Still, he reminded himself to send a text to the man to check, as soon as he got the chance.

He got stuck in morning traffic so it was a long drive out to Queens. By the time he'd got there, the house appeared empty. He parked up down the street and watched it for a while just to make sure.

He called Harold, and the other man answered immediately, "Finch, have you got eyes on either the house or the work address? And can you confirm there's only supposed to be the three of them at the house?"

"There's a traffic camera at the end of the street which shows the uncle's station wagon leaving about twenty minutes ago. Let me try and zoom... yes, it appears all three of them are in the vehicle. As for the house it should be... uh... no. The uncle's mother may be at the address. Hold on..." the pauses were filled with the sounds of frantic typing. "Ameena Begum, she's almost ninety and according to her doctors notes, suffers anxiety and has a bad heart. Oh Mr Reese, please don't barge into their house and cause this poor old woman a heart attack," he said wryly.

"How's her hearing?" John asked, thinking of sneaking in regardless.

"Doesn't say anything about it, so I would guess good enough. John, there's something odd about this search."

"What is it?"

"Mustafa Jabir doesn't appear to exist before arriving in this country."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, he doesn't have a social media presence, so it's been difficult to dig anything up. But I've hacked the secure government website for Pakistan and there's nothing on him. He used that passport to exit the country but there's nothing on their databases to say he exists."

"Someone got him out of there on false details." John said, "And I doubt it was the ISI, if the government had done it, I would have thought they'd at least give him a basic background, but perhaps it was, you never know."

"Are you saying he's a terrorist after all?"

"Or a regular criminal. Or a spy. Or an informant that needed protection." John reeled off the options. "I would hazard a guess that his aunt and uncle aren't blood relations, although they could be distant relatives or family friends. Look into them, perhaps we can trace back a connection."

"What are you going to do?"

"Try not to give a little old lady a heart attack."  
***

2009 - Islamabad

"Well, what a clusterfuck!" The embassy director groused at the three CIA agents he had in his office. Kara Stanton was standing, feet planted firmly and arms crossed, covered in dirt and concrete dust. Next to her, Mark Snow was in a rumpled suit, no tie and his sleeves rolled up, he had his hands on his hips and was staring at a point on the floor just passed his feet.

John was slumped in a chair, covered in filth, holding a dressing to his bleeding forehead. He'd slouched down so far that his ass was at the very edge of the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. It was the only way to sit to avoid the leather seat touching his bruised and torn lower back. It was a slovenly pose, very unprofessional, but right then he didn't care.

"Who else knew about the operation?" The director asked.

"Just the people in this room and the department head at Langley. Even he didn't know the details of the meet," Mark Snow assured.

"Then you were followed?"

"No Sir." Kara answered, coldly. She always hated having her competency called into question.

"Then it was your asset? I thought you'd assured me that he could be trusted, Reese."

"He could," John glanced up at him from under the wad of bandage. He had a massive headache, his back was killing him and he most definitely not in the mood to be doing this.  
"Well how the hell did a man with an RPG get to be there to take pot shots at you otherwise? You think he was just strolling the street with it? Either someone in this room is a traitor, or your asset set you up."

"Fuck you!" John snarled and leapt to his feet.

As he slammed through the door he could hear Kara defending him, "Go easy on him, he's just watched his friend get blown to pieces."

He didn't wait to hear the response, just strode down the corridor, slamming through every door he met until he was out in the pleasant evening air. The on site accommodation was across the quad, a little block of one roomed apartments, three stories high. John's room was on the top floor, which he'd appreciated when he'd checked in the day before and found it had a little balcony with a good view of the city, but now it felt like too many stairs.

By the time he got to his level and walked along the open-air walkway to his door, he was tired. He opened it up, closing the door behind him with a gentleness that he hadn't shown the other doors, threw the gauze bandage he'd been holding onto the breakfast bar in the kitchenette before grabbing a beer and stepping through the sliding doors.

He'd almost finished the bottle when he heard his door open and close, followed by the fridge, and then Kara appeared, sipping her own beer. She leaned on the metal railings and stared out at the concrete jungle in front of them before turning to look at John who was folded into a deck chair, meeting her eyes with a forlorn expression.

"Oh don't look at me like that," Kara admonished gently, "you know I'm no good at this touchy-feely crap."

"Yeah, I know. I wouldn't expect you to know what it's like to care about anyone but yourself," he said bitterly.

"Hey!" she protested. "Against my better judgement, I care about you. And right now, you're a state. Come into the bathroom and let me clean you up."

John drained his beer and dragged himself to his feet, his abused body protesting the movement. He did as he was told, first swiping the bottle of whisky he kept on the breakfast bar and then following Kara. He sat on the edge of the bath and kicked off his shoes and socks as he tugged his filthy shirt over his head. He dumped it on the floor and sat in just his jeans while she fetched the first aid kit and a wash cloth from under the sink and filled the basin with warm water.

"Shit, Reese!" she muttered. "You could do with a doctor, make sure these ribs aren't broken."

John took a slow, deep and painful breath. "Just cracked I think," he surmised, running his hands round his chest and back as he checked for displaced bone beneath his bruised skin.  
Kara sat beside him on the bath and started to clean the gouges the falling concrete had left in his back. John took a mouthful of whisky and stared straight ahead, trying not to flinch at Kara's ministrations.

"What do you think happened?" he asked her, voice thick with emotion.

"I don't know," she said honestly, "someone had to have told the Taliban we'd be there. But I trust your instincts, if you say it wasn't your friend, then it wasn't your friend."

"Thanks Kara."

"But I swear we weren't followed, so it does make you wonder how they knew we'd be there."

John nodded his silent agreement to that, as he heard his front door open again.

"Reese? You in here?" Mark Snow called. The balding man appeared in the open doorway of the bathroom and looked John's battered body up and down. "What the hell Reese, that was the embassy director!"

"So fucking fire me." John spat, drinking from the bottle again until his throat burned with the harsh import booze.

Mark stood with his hands on his hips, "Look, I've smoothed it over. He knows you've had a tough day."

"Tough day?" John laughed bitterly, "Yeah, just like when you're late to work because your car won't start or the coffee machine is out of order."

Mark sighed at his belligerent agent, "Look, you might think the director doesn't get it, and you're probably right, but I do. Anyway, he's not going to hold your attitude against you. We're going to take some time to research a possible new asset, give you a few days to heal up and get your head on straight and then the handler role is still yours if you want it."

John shook his head, "I didn't want it in the first place. I only said yes because you were insistent on using Khal and I wanted to make sure he had someone he could trust."

"Langley really wants you to have some handling experience." Mark said. "Between us, I'm fairly sure they've got a station chief position with your name on it, but they can't give it to you until you've done all the roles. You want to spend the rest of your life wrapping broken ribs and digging out bullets?"

John winced as Kara worked the wash cloth into a particularly deep cut, "I am not going to be responsible for sending other people into the kind of fucked up situations we ended up in today," he said firmly.

Mark sighed, for someone so good at following orders, the man could be the most bull-headed person he'd ever met. "You're on leave until we need you. Don't leave the embassy, it's not safe. Try and use the time to rest up, and I don't know, catch up on Lost or something. Is there anything you need?"

"I need you to get Khaled's family out of here."

"I don't think I..."

"It's non negotiable Mark. We were supposed to get them to the US years ago. I gave Khal my word that I would make it happen."

Mark gave John a long look, tinged with something akin to regret, "I'll make some calls," he promised. He turned to leave, "Don't drink the embassy dry," he shot at John before striding out of the door and shutting it loudly.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
2012 - NYC

"You know, Finch works you too hard." Joss said as she got into the passenger seat. She handed him a coffee in a paper cup and a burrito wrapped in foil.

"Thanks, but I don't eat in the field," he said waving the wrap at her.

"Haven't you been in the field all day?" Joss asked, tearing the top of the foil off and biting into her own. The smell of it, pulled pork with all the extras, made his stomach growl loudly. "And what was the most exciting part of your day?"

"Well," he smirked, "I charmed a ninety old lady into letting me look round her house."

"I don't even wanna know. Look, you are far too big for me to be mothering ya, but I will if you make me."

"Point taken." John smiled and took a bite. He nearly groaned with pleasure, it tasted as good as it smelled.

"Who is it this time?" Joss asked, nodding her head at the house.

"Some lab tech from Pakistan. We've got eyes and ears in his house, at his work, on his phone, in his computer, and yet we have no idea why him."

"Sounds like Finch has everything covered. So why are you sat outside his house like a fool?"

"I know," John said thoughtfully, "but it feels like we're missing something. I have a weird feeling about this one."

Joss raised her eyebrow at him, "So, you're gonna follow him around forever, is that what you're saying?"

"Not forever, just until something turns up, and it will. Our source is never wrong."

"Yeah, yeah. Your mysterious 'source'," she put little bunny-ears around the word. "You ever gonna tell me who your source is?"

John smiled, "You know I can't do that Detective."

"You just got to have those secrets, don't ya?"

This line of questioning had calmed down for a while since Finch had been captured by Root a little while ago. John has thought that both officers had finally realised he wasn't joking when he said he was withholding information for their own protection. If the nagging for details was going to start back up again tonight, well then he was quite sure he was just too tired to deal with it. "Tell me about your case?" he said instead.

Joss sighed at the obvious change of subject, but pulled the file out anyway. They spent the following two hours working on a theory that Joss had linking the homicide of a local drug dealer to someone inside HR. John thought she was on the right track, it was just the kind of job that Lionel would have been involved in when they'd met, but he wasn't prepared to tell her that. Finding evidence was going to be tough though, and he was too distracted to concentrate.

When a car backfired and John jumped, grabbing Joss' head and pushing her down in her seat, she had to stop him. "Woah!" she said, from the awkward position he'd put her in, her head practically in his lap while he scanned the street for danger, hand ghosting over the firearm in the back of his pants. "John, it's just a car, what's gotten into you?" She patted his knee to focus him on what he'd done and he relaxed his grip and let her up. She noticed, the way he'd pushed her down, he'd been able to shield her body with his own.

"I'm sorry," John sighed. "I don't know what came over me." He still scanned up and down the street though, watching all the pedestrians closely.

"John, look at me a second," Joss said and John had to concentrate to meet her gaze. "I've never seen you like this. When was the last time you got any rest?"

"Our cases, we've had a lot of them lately," he confessed. "Once this one is done, I'll get some sleep I promise."

"Except what if there's another one?"

"Well, I'll still find time to sleep, I promise."

"Yeah, why not find time on this one?"

John shook his head, "Not this one, there's something about it. Just a hunch, but this is important."

Joss smiled at him, "They're all important to you. But you forget you're important too, just try and remember that once in a while."  
***

2009 - Islamabad

Sometimes Kara had a really fucked up sense of loyalty. John tolerated it, for the most part. He'd realised very early on in their partnership that the reason she was so good at her job was that she wasn't really capable of processing her feelings like everyone else. It made empathy a foreign concept to her, not that she couldn't understand it, so much as she thought it made people weak. John had always clung to his empathy, even though it was getting harder and harder to do so. It had helped him understand when people had done bad things, it had helped him forgive the things that had been done to him, but also helped him understand his enemy.

Kara knew she was no good at what she called 'empathy bullshit', but she also conceded that John's ability to read people's needs made them a more effective team, so every so often she tried it on him. Quite often it was skewed, when they'd started tumbling into bed together almost a year ago, it had never been about love or affection, and instead had become a sporadic, often angry way to burn off their frustrations. Neither had set down rules for these trysts, and yet they were there anyway; no tenderness, no cuddling and absolutely no falling in love. That suited her, and it was fairly obvious that if John was going to get doe-eyed over someone it was going to be someone sweet and kind, not her with her cold temper and penchant for death. No, turning sex into something affectionate would be dangerous to them both, but she showed her care for him in other ways. Which is why, when she'd finished patching him up and he'd gone to lie down, she'd stayed with him.

He lay on his front, face smushed into the pillow and she sat beside him, back propped against the headboard as she watched TV with the sound down low and devoured a family-sized bag of potato chips. They didn't talk, John pretended to sleep, Kara pretended to care, and no doubt did, in her small way, hoping her presence would keep the nightmares at bay.

John would never say, but he appreciated the woman's presence. He supposed it was from too long in the military but these days he always slept better when someone was there. For a long time sleep had meant in a barracks full of other soldiers all snoring and farting and rolling over on creaky bed springs, and then it had been a thin mattress on a dusty floor in an Afghan prison. He'd found being alone the hardest thing about his imprisonment, the silence gave him too much time to think. He'd been drunk when he'd admitted this to Kara, on a different 'bad day' last year. They'd never talked about it since, but now, on occasions when things had been particularly tough, Kara hung around at least when she didn't have anything better to do. She always insisted the only reason why was that John got cranky if he hadn't had enough sleep.

Today, it wasn't helping, every time he closed his eyes, John was met with a vision of Khaled's dismembered and charred hand. He let his eyes leak into the pillow, knowing he could switch the emotion off almost instantly if he needed to.

Eventually, Kara got a phone call. She took it in the bathroom so as not to disturb him, but when she came out he lifted his head in question, eyes clear, features tired but stoic, ready for business.

"Snow just wants me to come down and discuss a potential new job. I'm to remind you that you're on sick leave, or 'blown up' leave or whatever. Just chill, okay?" She smiled at him and grabbed her jacket as she left. John waited, listening to her footsteps clack down the walkway before jumping up, a little too fast for his spinning head, throwing some clean clothes on and leaving too.

He smiled casually at the Marines that guarded the exits, hoping they wouldn't notice that his head was held together with steri-strips. Not that it mattered if they did, but he'd rather not have to account for his strolling around outside when he'd been advised not to.

Night had fallen while he'd been in his room, but the streets were just as busy. As he navigated through the city's grid laid out streets, dodging mopeds and taxis and stepping round the stalls that had been set up on the sidewalks. The evening call to prayer started at the nearest mosque and within a few minutes, other mosques joined in and the amplified voices of the muezzins filled the air and drowned out the traffic. John had always found the sound particularly haunting and loved and hated it in equal measure.

He found the street that he was looking for, and settled in to wait. Eventually prayers were over and he watched as people made their way back to their houses. It took a while but eventually he recognised a familiar face. "Karim Hussein?" he called, and the man turned around, confirming he had the right man.

"Karim, I need to speak to you." John urged, "somewhere private."

"Yeah? Well I have nothing to say to you, or any other American scum." Karim spat.

John took the abuse without flinching, knowing it was deserved. "Please, I knew your brother. I'm sorry about today, but it wasn't me, see, they tried to kill me too." He lifted up the back of his shirt to show him the damage.

Karim looked at him long and hard, and then nodded, "Not here though." He started to walk and John followed him. Eventually they arrived at a small park that was dimly lit. There was a vendor there, selling little paper cups of chai, poured from a thermos, John bought two cups and went to join Karim sitting cross legged on the grass.

"I'm so sorry about Khal." John said sadly.

"How did you know him?" Karim asked, his voice still taut with suspicion.

"We served in the same unit in Afghanistan. I got transferred out and I assumed that when he'd finished his service that you would all be allowed to America, I know that's what you were promised. When I found out he was still here, I met with him. I wanted to find a way to help him."

"You Americans, you promise, and you lie, and you manipulate everyone into doing things your way. Khaled was naive to trust you."

"I think I was naive back then too, I really believed they would help." John admitted.

"And now? Now you are CIA you are not so naive? Now you know because now you lie too?"

John opened his mouth to refute that and found that he couldn't. "Did Khal tell you about me?"

"Not at all. Because if he had then I would have told him not to meet. But you're clearly not a diplomat, so only CIA gives you any kind of ability to say you can help us."

"Is there anyone else he would have told?"

"What is it you want?" Karim asked.

"I want to find your brother's killer," John said, allowing all the emotion that he usually hid to seep into his voice.

Karim nodded in resignation, "No, there was no one. He knew better than that."

John nodded, he'd been sure, but it was nice to have it confirmed by someone who knew him better. "Do you think he could have been followed? Is there any reason the Taliban or the ISI would want to watch him?"

"Why would the ISI blow you and my brother up? I thought we were supposed to be allies?"

John just shrugged, if he knew that then maybe he'd have something to investigate, "Just thinking outside the box. I know it wasn't us, but that's all I can say for sure."

"You don't trust them?"

John gave him a somewhat bitter chuckle, "I don't trust many people these days."

Karim studied him, "You're the sergeant, right? From Kandahar? Khaled told me about when you were captured."

John smiled grimly, "How did you know?"

"Because when you showed me your back just now, I could see the old scars too. Khaled trusted you." He took a deep breath, as though preparing himself to divulge the next sentence. "Khaled was always looking for ways to fight the Taliban after what they did. He truly believed they could be destroyed. He did some work for the ISI when we first came here, you know, joined a mosque sympathetic to the tribal leaders, made friends, passed on information to the security services when he could. But then one day he came home furious and said he had stopped working for them. We were all followed by their agents for a while, I suppose to make sure he hadn't switched sides, but when we all got on with our lives, that stopped. I had thought they'd decided he could be trusted to keep their secrets. And he could be, he never told me or his wife anything."

John nodded at this new information, "What reason did he give for quitting?"

"He said that the meetings made him so angry that he didn't think he could pretend anymore. But I always thought it was more than that."

John nodded and clasped Karim's shoulder, "Thank you." He started to stand.

"I know how you people work," Karim said, "if you try and recruit me the way you were going to my brother, the answer is no. Khaled was the warrior, I am a doctor. We all have our part to play in making the world a better place, but I already have mine. I will not put what's left of my family at risk for your cause."

John nodded, "I appreciate that Karim, you're a good man."

As he started to walk away, Karim called out, "Hey, you should really see a doctor about your back. You're bleeding through to your shirt."

John nodded and gave him a half smile, "Thank you, I will."

John wove somewhat unsteadily through the chaotic streets to get back to the embassy. The traffic noise and the harsh street lighting was exacerbating the headache he'd had since the explosion. His ears still rang and he wondered idly if he'd perforated an ear drum. If so it wouldn't be the first time and it would likely heal on its own, but it could potentially bench him for a couple of weeks while it did. That would complicate matters. He was due some R&R, and would normally not have to be told twice to spend his recovery time on a beach somewhere. But if he was going to continue to look into Khaled's death he was going to have to explain why he'd rather spend his downtime in the grimy grey of Islamabad instead of in a beach hut in Goa.

By the time he got back, everything had worsened and he was feeling truly miserable. He faked an 'everything's okay,' smile at the Marines on the gate, who questioned the blood now dotting the back of his clean shirt, and went back up to him room, collapsing into his king-sized bed and dragging the covers over him.

He slept fitfully, his dreams plagued with explosions and severed hands, dark cells and car batteries, everything getting mixed up so that the two memories were inseparable from each other. In the end, he gave up, and retreated to the balcony with the bottle of whisky and watched the sun come up.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

2012 - NYC

"Mr Reese?"

John jumped awake at the sound of his boss' voice in his ear. He blinked away the remnant of a bad dream and realised he'd fallen asleep, on his stakeout.

"What is it Finch?" he asked, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Then there was a tapping on the window that made him jump. "Hold on," he muttered to the man in his ear-piece. He turned the engine on so he could wind the window down, he cursed silently when he realised it was his number.

"Hey man, are you okay?" Mustafa asked in heavily accented English.

"Erm, yeah. I just," he shrugged helplessly, "my wife kicked me out."

"You're in a nice suit, you couldn't afford a hotel?" Mustafa asked.

"Well, she threw me out without my wallet and it was too late to call a friend. Besides, I was kinda hoping she'd call and ask me to come back," he said sheepishly.

"Oh okay, well, good luck man." Mustafa said and went on his way.

John put the car into drive and pulled out.

"Well, while I admire your ability to think on your feet, that didn't exactly go according to plan, did it?" Harold commented in his ear.

"Yeah, sorry about that." John muttered, he was grumpy from lack of sleep as it was, and that was not going to be helped by an earful of admonishing from his cleverer than thou employer.

"Why didn't you go home last night like I suggested?" Harold asked, but John had just driven passed Mustafa and noticed him being approached by two rough looking men who dragged him into an alleyway.

"Hold on Finch!" John pulled over and leapt out, chasing after them. As he got into the alley, he saw that one of the men had pinned him up against the wall with a forearm across his throat. The other was growling at him in what John thought was Punjabi.

"Hey fellas," John greeted, making all three men stop and stare at him. "This doesn't look very friendly, why don't you put him down and we can all speak like men?"

"Why don't you fuck off?" the one holding Mustafa spat. He shoved the younger man against the wall and lunged for John. John quickly turned into the tackle and succeeded in flipping the man over his back. He landed with a heavy splash and stared up at them from the flat of his back in a large puddle.

"Is that enough of this nonsense?" John asked amused. The two aggressors just stared at him. Mustafa just stared at them and then ran.

John turned to look at the pair of men he had with him. "Now, you mind telling me what that was all about?" he asked flashing them his pilfered detectives badge. He reached down for the man on the floor but rather than help him up, he searched through his jacket pockets until he found a wallet. "Adnan Khan, third of March nineteen-seventy-eight," he read aloud so Harold could hear him. "Your driving license is for Michigan. You're a long way from Detroit, so what is this about?"

"It's a family matter, just a misunderstanding," the man said getting up and snatching his wallet when John offered it back to him casually. "My nephew owes me some money. I got a little frustrated at his attitude, but I promise it won't happen again."

John nodded, "See that it doesn't," he warned and stalked away back to his car. He looked around for Mustafa but he'd long gone.

"What was that about Mr Reese?" Harold asked as John got back to his car.

"Not sure, looked like it was over more than a few dollars at any rate. Did you find anything on that name I gave you?"

"There are two Adnan Khan's in Detroit, was his address Islandview or Lasalle Gardens?"

"Lasalle."

"Then I'll get right on it. Considering it seems likely that he's the perpetrator, will you be tailing Mr Khan?"

"Already blue-jacked his phone and put a GPS tracker in his wallet Finch." John smiled, "I'm going to go get breakfast."  
***

2009 - Islamabad

John started his day with some yoga and a hot shower and then spent the rest of it doing research on the secure server in his room. By the time it was early evening, he had built up a picture of the work that Khaled had been doing before he'd quit, with a list of possible targets at the mosque and a history of their involvement with the militia in the borderlands. As far as he could tell, Khaled had abandoned his work with the ISI right in the middle of his investigation, which didn't sit right with what John knew of the man. There had to be something else that would have forced the decision. Unfortunately, he couldn't for the life of him figure out what.

His stomach growled, interrupting his thought processes. Normally, he liked to cook for himself, but he hadn't had time to do a proper food shop and he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. He dragged himself down to the staff canteen and filled his plate up with rice and lamb stew. Most of the day staff had already gone home so it was mostly empty. There was a large group of rowdy Marines in the corner and John watched their banter with nostalgia, before finding a seat on his own.

"Jesus Christ!"

John stifled a groan as Mark sat down beside him.

"You look a fucking state." The other man said, slurping his coffee and then tucking into his own plate of stew.

"Yeah well, so do you, and you don't even have a close call with a pair of grenades as an excuse." John teased.

Mark rolled his eyes, "I've spent all day trying to smooth out this clusterfuck. We need a new asset, and we need one quickly. Hey, did Hussein ever mention his brother?"

John shook his head, "He won't do it."

"How do you know?"

"I already spoke to him."

Mark grinned, "You see, your dedication is what's put you in the running for that station chief's job."

"Kara's dedicated, and she's got more experience," John pointed out.

"Yeah? But Kara's fucking scary. No one wants to give her any kind of influence because they're scared she'll eat them for breakfast," Mark was only half-joking. "Anyway, I think we can work on the brother, he just needs a little friendly persuasion."

John shook his head, lowering his voice, "Not a good idea. I think whoever killed Khaled didn't want us to meet. They probably won't want Karim to either. It'll end the same way."

"What do you mean?" Mark asked. "Do you know something we don't?"

John shook his head, "Just a hunch for now. I'd like a few days to work on it before I share with the class."

Mark frowned but relented eventually, "Okay, but I want you to bring this to me and the embassy director as soon as you have anything. Is Kara working on this with you?"

"No she's not. And don't worry, I will."

Conversation turned to lighter subjects while they ate the rest of their dinner, but then John made his excuses and went back up to his room. He hurt all over, and the headache from the day before hadn't truly left, so the first thing he did was flop down on the bed. He flipped the bedside light on and then reached under the mattress he was laying on for the legal pad of handwritten notes he'd make during the course of the day's investigation.

It wasn't exactly where it was supposed to be. He had a little private rule of three that he used to ensure things were exactly where he left them. What the three things were, was different every time, like leaving something aligned with the third fold in a curtain or the third whorl on a wooden desk; this time he'd not been over elaborate, but his notes had been perfectly aligned to the third slat on the bed frame. Now it was aligned to the fourth one.

Frustrated, he leapt off the bed and searched the rest of the room, but of course there was nothing else worth finding. Someone had been through his suitcase that he'd yet to unpack too, he always kept it messy so that no one was able to put it back exactly how it was either, but there had been nothing to find in it anyway. He looked back at his notes, they were brief plot points only, no names, just initials and coded locations. He hoped that they'd only be decipherable to him, but he couldn't be sure.

His first point of call was Kara's room. He knocked at the door and barged in as soon as she opened it. She was wrapped in a bathrobe and he didn't realise until he strode into the room that a young and very naked Marine was scrambling off her bed. He grabbed a pillow and held it over his crotch as he tried to work out just how much trouble he was in. John gave him one look and then ignored him.

"Kara, have you been in my room?" he asked.

"No! Why?" Kara had been holding the robe closed but was purposefully not doing a very good job of it. There was a smile on her face as she took pleasure in having two men be turned on by her at once, although in actual fact John was in no mood to play her game.

"What about him?" he indicated the Marine who has gone bright red in the face with embarrassment.

"I've been with him all afternoon," Kara supplied.

"We may have a problem. I'm going to ask for a meeting with Snow and the director. You can come with me, or you can keep entertaining your new friend, it's up to you."

"Give me five minutes," Kara said, dashing into the bathroom for a quick shower, on the way she picked up the Marine's clothes and threw them at him. "Sorry buddy, can we pick this up later?"

The Marine, who has looked mortified, looked to John who just shrugged, his nonchalance clear. When the young man seemed sure that he wasn't going to get ratted out, he grinned, "You know where to find me Ma'am." He got dressed hurriedly and left.

Two minutes later, Kara was showered and dressed, despite the situation, John laughed at her, "You make him call you Ma'am?"

"Shut up!" she snapped back. "Tell me what this is about."

"Not here."

Together they went down to the directors office, they called Mark on the way and by the time they got there he was already inside waiting for him.

"I think we have a leak," John started as soon as they were all in the room and the door was closed.

"What?" Mark asked angrily.

"Reese," the director sighed, "you look terrible. Sit down before you fall down."

John caught a glimpse of himself in the glass door. He did look a mess, dressed in jeans and a faded black tee shirt, his hair, which was getting a little too long, fell over his forehead. His jaw was covered in greying stubble and his eyes were sunken and red rimmed from tiredness. He'd been trying to ignore the slightly feverish feeling he'd had all day, but there were clear signs of that too on his pale, clammy skin. He refused to sit though, just continued to stand 'at ease' in front of the directors desk.

"What makes you think there's a leak?"

"For starters, only we knew about the meet with Hussein and yet they knew exactly where to find us. I went to meet with Khaled's brother last night and he assured me he knew nothing about it and that Khaled was no longer a person of interest to ISI. I started looking into the past intelligence work he'd done to try and find someone who might want him dead, and I've just been back to my room and my things have been moved."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes Sir."

"It doesn't sound like you've been resting like you were ordered to."

"What? How is that important right now?" John asked, exasperated.

"Because I have a man looking set to collapse in my office." The director picked up the phone and started dialling, "I'm going to have Mark and Kara here look into the leak, but I'm going to get some of my people take you to a hospital to get you checked out."

John wanted to protest but he knew he'd need some antibiotics to stop it from getting worse so he relented. He could get back to his investigation when he was a little clearer headed.  
***

2012 - NYC

John sauntered into the library around lunchtime, feeling somewhat refreshed. He'd managed to catch Joss at the Lyric Diner for breakfast, been home, showered and changed and then had come in with hot drinks, a pair of salt beef bagels for he and Finch for lunch and a doggy danish for Bear. He greeted the dog first, by crouching on the floor and giving the animal's belly a good rub, almost having forgotten about the bagels in his pocket, until Bear tried to nab one.

"I thought you may actually want to go home and sleep a few hours." Harold said. "You know, Detective Carter is right, if you don't start looking after yourself then we will be obliged to do it for you."

John frowned, "I'm fine Finch. And anyway, I was right to keep an eye on him."

"Yes, and you nearly missed all the action because you fell asleep on the job."

John rolled his eyes, he hated it when his boss started to punctuate every word.

"Anyway, I feel like we may have made a breakthrough with Mr Khan. Mr Khan was born in Detroit but his family is from Islamabad, Pakistan. Going back through family records, I've found that he does have a thirty-six year old brother-in-law called Mustafa Choudry who disappeared in early 2009."

"Great work Finch! Anything to say why?"

"No, not at all, he left behind a wife but no children. The wife is Mr Khan's sister."

"Good job Finch, now we just have to work out why he left."

"Well, I have a few theories about that too. It appears that Mustafa and his wife were very young when they married. Perhaps it just wasn't working out."

"If they're a traditional family, they may be putting pressure on him to go back." John pointed out.

"Well yes, perhaps. But to kill him for it?"

John just shrugged, perhaps he'd spent too much time in that part of the world, or maybe it was too long at this job. "Honour killings are more common than I'm sure you'd like to think. People have been killed for less."

Harold sighed like he did whenever John reminded him that the world was a worse place than he'd like to believe it was. "I suppose. Is that why this young man bothered you so much? You thought it might be his family?"

John shook his head, "No, I guess I was wrong on this one, I thought it might be something else."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

2009 - Islamabad

"Whoever fixed this did a good job, but you should really have come to the hospital sooner," the doctor said as he flushed the inflamed cuts on John's back.

"I know," he admitted, "I'm just stubborn that way." Stubborn and still half expecting a hitman, he wanted to say but didn't. He was in a small side room in the Emergency room at one of Islamabad's top hospitals, with a drip in his arm and a heavily armed Marine at his door. He felt a little silly with such security, but that was the way of these jobs sometimes, and if it had been Kara here instead then he would have insisted on the same. Actually, if it had been Kara he would have been there too, but he was glad she wasn't. He had no desire to reveal to her just how much he was hurting.

The doctor finished his work, cleaning and dressing the wounds in silence. He'd already been told he couldn't question John about what had happened, although with news of the RPG attack all across town, the answer was obvious. When he had taped on the last bandage he retrieved a glass of water and a bottle of pills.

"Antibiotics," he explained, "you should take one, three times a day. Wait here, I want you to have all your saline, it should take about an hour. And I'll see about arranging an X-Ray for your ribs."

John nodded his agreement and dry-swallowed one of the large antibiotic capsules. When the doctor left, he lay on his side in the foetal position and tried to get some sleep. The place was noisy though and the thin walls of the room did nothing to drown it out. There was a family arguing loudly in the next room, a myriad of other voices out in the hall, machines beeped throughout the place, unsynchronised and all at different pitches and down the hallway a baby and it's mother were both wailing. He could hear the buzz of the harsh overhead lighting that was making his headache worse, and when it was all shot through with the electric crackle of a bug being zapped by the UV device in the hall, John couldn't help but flinch.

He'd never had a thing about hospitals and he had no idea why he was suddenly so uncomfortable in this one, but he chalked it up to exhaustion and that loud crying and beeping getting on his nerves. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to block it all out but it wasn't really working and when he opened his eyes again he could swear the room had gotten smaller.

"Mr Reese?"

John opened his eyes to his name being called, and was instantly set with fear as he saw who it was. Wearing the white coat and pale blue shirt of the doctor before, his old Kandahar torturer was stood in front of him. John bolted off the bed, a move which made the room tilt and spin, and placed the bed between him and his attacker. He grabbed the cannula and tore it out, blood dripping down his arm where he hadn't been gentle, and picked up the IV pole brandishing it at the man.

"Get away from me!" he yelled, "You shouldn't be here! I killed you!" He shoved the IV pole into the man's chest and he backed away out of the door. John ditched his cumbersome weapon and raced around the bed and headed for the door, when it was blocked by a large Marine.

"That man!" John pointed beyond the Marine to the man cowering in the hallway. "That man tortured me."

"Sir," the Marine held his hands up and tried to calm John down. "Sir, this man hasn't hurt you, he's a doctor."

"No, not now, Afghanistan." John insisted, "I have to get out of here."

When the Marine squared his shoulders and refused to budge, John threw a punch to his face and used the distraction to tear the man's handgun from his holster.

"Shit!" the Marine cursed. "Everyone out of here now!" The command caused chaos as people ran, doctors and nurses trying to get their patients away. "Sir!" he tried again. "No one's going to hurt you."

John thumbed the safety off the Glock and pressed it to the Marine's head. John pushed him back out of the room. John got into the corridor and looked round warily, fast enough to make the room spin. He couldn't see his torturer anywhere. He cursed under his breath and tried to remember the layout of the building that he'd checked when he'd come in. He couldn't remember though, he wasn't even sure why he was there in the first place. The decision was made for him when he saw three security guards coming for him. He turned the other way and took off running.

He raced down the hallway until he saw a fire exit and changed course. He crashed through the door and out into a service corridor filled with dirty laundry carts, he pulled a few away from the wall behind him, blocking the path for his pursuers as he made his way for the next set of doors that led into an alleyway at the back of the hospital.

His chest heaved as he tried to focus his thoughts and his vision. This didn't look like Kandahar, he had no idea how to get back to base. He knew he needed to contact his CO, but finding a radio would be hard. He'd have to find somewhere to lay low for a while.

He ran out into the street and instantly regretted it, there were hostiles everywhere. He had no spare clips, there'd be no way he could take them all at once. The air was filled with the sound of sirens, there were more on the way.

He raced down the crowded street, his lungs burning with the effort. Someone bumped into him, or he bumped into them, he wasn't sure, but he whirled round with the gun anyway, snarling at them to get out of the way. Up ahead, a police car pulled up and two officers got out. The taller one, the driver, was younger and fitter, John assessed that he would be the greater danger so it was he that John pulled his gun on first.

The two officers panicked and drew their own weapons, the tall, young one was saying something, but John's hearing was still ringing and between that, the sirens and the noise of the crowd, he couldn't tell what they were saying.

He sensed someone creeping up behind him and spun round to confront this new threat, but not quick enough and another police officer rammed the butt of their rifle into the side of John's head. John staggered under the blow and fell to his knees, the handgun slipping from his fingers. This new police officer held his rifle between them, but John wasn't deterred. He grabbed the rifle and yanked it out of the way, bringing the gun in close to his body so that it went off the bullet would hit the ground, and then he drove his elbow into the man's face.

Despite the panic that coursed through his body, his moves were still made with precision. His elbow, hit the base of the police officer's nose and forced it upward, driving the cartilage into the man's brain, killing him instantly. As the dead police officer hit the ground, John swung back round, unsteady on his feet and struggling to control the vertigo that made everything swirl in front of him. Something else hit his head, and then he was tackled to the ground and felt a punch to his face and another to his ribs. He felt the cold bite of handcuffs as his hands were forced behind his back, and the blows kept coming. He tried to fight them off, but he couldn't get to his feet so he could do nothing but curl in on himself and wait for the beating to end.  
***

2012 - NYC

"Hey buddy, how's it goin'?"

"You too Lionel?" John drawled, this was annoying now. Could he not just be left to get on with his work? He was sat on a bench outside the hospital waiting for Mustafa to finish his shift.

"Me too what? I can't call you up? Just been to a Patriots game, man, they're on fire this year. How'd your Seahawks do today?"

John hadn't had time to catch the results, but from the gloating tone of Lionel's voice he guessed not well. "Been kind of busy Lionel."

"Yeah, Carter said you were losin' sleep over this latest case. You know, most people don't get enough sleep, they might wind up doin' something silly, with you it could mean you wind up dead."

"I thought you used to want me dead Lionel," John sighed.

"Yeah, well you know me, I hate change, but I've kinda got used to havin' you around."

"Why is everyone taking a sudden interest in my sleep patterns anyway?"

Lionel caved, like John knew he would, "Okay, it was The Professor. He may have mentioned that this latest case was linked to Pakistan, and that you had some sort of tough time over there. He asked us to check in every once in a while, make sure you're doin' okay, you know?"

John huffed, "I'm gonna kill him! Thanks Lionel, you've been helpful as always."

"Hey, any time buddy, just don't tell him I said..."

"Mr Reese? Sorry to interrupt..." Harold chimed in sounding concerned.

"Just leaving the hospital now, Finch."

"Yes, about that. Mr Khan is laying in wait at the next corner."

"On it."

"Sounds like I need to leave you guys to..." Lionel started but he was cut off when John cursed loudly.

A dark van with no plates pulled up just as Mustafa left the hospital.

"What is it Mr Reese?" Harold urged.

"An abduction." John got up from his bench and raced across the paved forecourt, just as the side door of the van slid open and a group of men dressed in black and with their faces covered with ski masks jumped out. They made a grab for Mustafa who panicked and tried to run. They got hold of him but then John barrelled into the first one, tackling him around the waist and body-slamming to the floor.

As the first guy gasped for air on the tarmac, John was hauled off him by the others. John let them drag him to his feet and then he kicked out at the one holding Mustafa and shattered the guy's knee. He crumpled, howling in agony and loosening his hold enough that Mustafa was able to tear free.

"Run!" John roared at him, and the man did not need to be told twice, dashing away from the scene at a full sprint. John drove an elbow at one man's face and disarmed him of his handgun with a wrist-snapping twist, but then a shot rang out anyway and he saw Mustafa fall.

John was vaguely aware of Harold asking desperate questions in his ear, but he ignored the man, only half aware of the words 'help on the way'.

The butt of a handgun smashed into his face but he ignored it and pulled his own weapon. Then the sounds of sirens cut through the chaos and the masked men froze. With one last violent shove they managed to throw John to the ground. He tried to push himself to his feet when another shot erupted and he felt it's heavy thud into his back, knocking him back to the floor.  
He watched, dazed as the men all jumped into the van and rode off, they stopped up ahead, where Mustafa lay and two of them jumped out to get him, so John, still laying on the ground, shot towards them, enough to drive them back into the van and to speed off.

John collapsed his head back down on the cool ground, trying to steady his breathing and control the pain. The siren stopped, he heard a car door and then a familiar shout, "John!"

He felt Joss' warm hands on his shoulders as she knelt beside him and checked for injuries, thinking, not for the first time, how it felt good to be rescued. "..'m okay," he mumbled, "Vest." He felt Joss lift up the back of his suit jacket anyway as though she didn't believe him.

He signalled up ahead to where a crowd had started to gather round Mustafa, "Check on him, if he's alive, we need to get him out of here."

"There's a hospital right here!" she pointed out, exasperated.

"No, not here." John's tone was enough that for once she wasn't going to argue.

She ran down the street to the man and knelt beside him, flashing her badge at the crowd and making some space. John hauled himself to his feet and found that she'd driven her cruiser up onto the sidewalk beside him and left the lights flashing, keys in the ignition. He got into the driver's seat stiffly and drove up to her and his number, just as she was helping the man to his feet.

Mustafa looked a mess, there was blood pouring from a head wound and he was barely able to stay upright, even with Joss holding him up.

"Come on, we've gotta go," John ordered. Joss yanked open the back door and slid Mustafa inside, sliding him over enough so she could get in too. As soon as the door was closed, John sped off.

"John, he's hurt really badly," Joss said. When John glanced in the rear view mirror he could see that he'd slipped unconscious against her and that she was trying to manhandle him into laying down across the seats.

"What do you need John?" Harold asked in his ear. The ex-spy has forgotten he was there.

"Stand by, Finch," he snapped, and the older man fell dutifully silent.

"Carter, they'll be looking for him at local hospitals," John pointed out. "You think he can hang on a few hours?"

"Jesus John! Don't make me make that call," she gasped.

"Okay, I'll make it. Describe the wound."

Joss sighed, "Well he's been shot in the left temple. It's just a graze, but a deep one, definitely chipped the skull, probably fractured it, but..." she felt around his head gently, "there's no compression, nothing's moving. But he's definitely going to need a hospital, no holding up in a safe house like you two idiots usually do."

There was a groan then from the back seat and a weak flailing arm. "Hey, hey." Joss whispered soothingly.

"What? Who?" Mustafa slurred, almost incoherently.

"Hey, Mustafa," John peered over the seat for a second, "remember me? We're going to get you somewhere safe, okay? My friend Joss here is going to try keep you awake."

"Wha..?"

John knew that probably rose more questions than it answered for the poor man but he needed to concentrate on the road, Joss would have to do her best to keep him calm. "Finch, you still there?" he asked, as he drove towards the highway out of town.

"Always Mr Reese. Are you alright?" Harold sounded relieved to finally be included.

"Harold, they'll be looking for this car. Can you send me a new one, somewhere out of the city, no cameras so we can do a switch over, Larchmont maybe, or New Rochelle." The last name still caused him a little stab in his gut to say out loud, but there was no time for worries like that now. "Pick an RVP and then text me the location. Carter," he then called into the back. "I need you to search Mustafa for phones and get rid of them."

He glanced into the rear view mirror and saw Joss had already found a phone and was busy sliding the back off to get to the SIM card. It was funny how his skills in disappearing came back to him without even thinking about it, but as he listened to her chatting away soothingly to Mustafa, he was glad she was there with him.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

2009 - Islamabad

They left the handcuffs on, even when they threw him into the cell, but John knew he couldn't let that stop him. They'd used rigid cuffs, with the bar separating his hands, they made it much harder to get out of, but there was almost always another way to dislocate a thumb and slip free. John twisted his hands into the right position and then ran backwards at the wall, crushing his thumb into the concrete. He heard and felt something crack, and he left a bloody smear on the wall but it wasn't enough so he ran at the wall again. It hurt, but the adrenaline kept it from overwhelming him, and he could use that to drive him forward. He was about to try a third time when the cell door was thrown open again and officers rushed in again, grabbing him and throwing him to the ground.

John bit and kicked and snarled as he tried to get the men who were pinning him off him. They were pressing him into the floor, it made it hard to breathe and his vision was starting to grey at the edges. To compensate, he tried to drag more breaths into his battered lungs but it just made things worse.

"John!"

John froze at the sound of a familiar voice, "Jessica?"

"No John, it's Kara," she said. But John couldn't understand why Jessica would be pretending to be someone she wasn't, especially when he could see her clearly in the cell doorway.

"Jessica! You have to get out of here! Don't let them get you!" he urged, his voice breaking with the strain.

"John, you've hurt yourself," she knelt beside him. "Turn him on his side, he can't breathe," she ordered the guards. They did as they were told and John suddenly found a weight moved from his chest, he tried to gulp lungfuls of air into his battered chest.

"John, do you remember what happened?"

"The torturer, he was there," he insisted, "Jessica, why are you here? It's not safe."

Jessica reached out and ran her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. John groaned and leaned into the soft touch. "I've missed you," he mumbled.

"I know, John. I've missed you too. It's okay, I'm going to make it okay."

John forced himself to relax under the kind touch of the woman he loved. But then a man appeared in the doorway behind her and handed her a syringe. When she took it, John tensed again, panic welling back up in him again. The men still holding him increased the strength of their hold as he fought against him. "What are you doing?" he gasped, fighting away from the needle. "Stop! Jessica! Stop!" Jessica plunged the needle into John's shoulder and jammed the plunger down.

John felt the liquid flood his body, and in seconds it made his body feel heavy and like his eyelids were lined with lead. He wasn't going to give in though, no matter what Jessica had given him. He felt utterly betrayed by her, and yet as she knelt beside him and stroked his hair, he found he still wanted her touch and he hated himself for it.  
***

2012 - Bridgeport, CT

John and Joss heaved Mustafa out of the car and held onto him as they walked him through the ER doors. John delved into his pocket and pulled out his stolen US Marshals badge. He reached out and grabbed a passing nurse. "I'm sorry," he said, waving the badge at her, "this man needs help."

She took one look at him and nodded frantically, showing them through to a bed and pulled the privacy curtains round them. "I'll just go get a doctor."

"Thank you," John smiled, speaking in a low conspiratorial voice, "he's in Witness Protection, can we keep the details between as few people as possible?"

"Oh," she said flustered, "yes, of course." She hurried out.

John eased Mustafa into the bed and tried to ignore Joss glaring daggers at him for his deception. Suddenly the nurse came back with a few of her colleagues and a doctor and suddenly John and Joss had to step back while Mustafa was engulfed in a whirling organised chaos.

"You should get someone to have a look at you too," Joss said quietly.

John shook his head, "I'm alright. We can't leave Mustafa."

Joss was about to argue further when the doctor came out. The doctor's name tag read Dr Le Dieu, and she folded her arms over her chest, as she seemed to be making an assessment of the two people in front of her.

"Sorry for springing this on you Doctor," John tried for a weary but charming smile.

The doctor didn't appear impressed, "You're going to have to tell me what happened."

John opened his mouth to speak but Joss cut in, "We were taking our witness to his new home when we were ambushed. He's been shot at a range of about..."

"30 feet," John supplied, "with a 9mm."

"Okay, well we're going to take him in for a CT. We'll know more once we see the scans, but it's likely we're looking at surgery to deal with a brain bleed."

"Okay," John nodded, "we have a huge favour to ask. This case has been moving at a rapid pace, for obvious reasons. We're still crafting his new identity, it should be ready by morning. Can you put him on file as a John Doe until then? And maybe be a little vague about the cause of his injury. We'll square it with local law enforcement."

"Let me see your badge." She studied it carefully before handing it back. "My shift finishes at 7, your guys have until then to supply us with ID and insurance."

"That'll be fine, I'm sure." John said, wondering if Harold had made it back to New York yet. When he'd arrived at the car swap, John had insisted Harold drive around a while before taking the cruiser back to the 8th and parking it back where it belonged so that no one noticed it missing. He'd offered to get it valeted too, in case there was blood in the back, but Joss had pointed out that if a police cruiser wasn't covered in a layer of grime and with empty coffee cups and food wrappers rolling around in the footwell, then people were bound to know that something was amiss, so they'd settled for a quick scrub down with some antibacterial wipes, much to Harold's disgust.

The curtain pulled back and staff started to wheel Mustafa in his bed to the CT suite. Joss gave John a smile, "This protection detail is on me. Doctor, can you do me one last favour? My stubborn ass of a partner took a bullet to the vest tonight, do you think you could find someone to make sure he's alright?"

It seemed to have the desired effect on the doctor. John's flirty smile hadn't worked when he was a confident and demanding US Marshal, but suddenly he was a man heroically injured and putting a brave face on it, and that seemed to work like a charm. John smirked, who'd have thought that Joss would be such a good wingman? Joss did, obviously, if the smile she gave him was anything to go by as she walked away, "I'll make a few calls too, get the paperwork expedited. You just get yourself checked out soldier."

The doctor turned to John as gestured for him to enter an empty cubicle, "I have a few minutes before your boy comes back from his scan, shall we?"

John followed her in, and sat down on the bed with his legs dangling off it. Suddenly he was incredibly tired and all the aches came back to the forefront of his consciousness, but he couldn't give into it just yet, not least because his 'partner' had just tasked him with winning the doctor over so that they could influence her to their needs.

"Okay then," the doctor smiled, "off with your shirt, let's take a look at you." John tensed his core so that his muscles would appear more defined and then slowly, almost seductively unbuttoned his shirt. He didn't need to look at her to tell it was working.  
***

2009 - Islamabad

He awoke to pain and the sound of people talking about him. The voices sounded muffled and far away, and yet they were in hushed tones too and he could feel their presence in the room, he caught his name and the words "psychotic break" and that forced him to open his eyes.

"Hey sleepyhead, how are you feeling?"

John tracked his vision over to the side of his bed, where Kara was sat, holding his hand. John blinked, as he tried to take in what he was seeing. He was in a hospital room, and the hand that Kara was holding was strapped with a leather cuff to the bed frame, an IV in the back.

"Shit!" was his first thought, spoken aloud, and he tried to bring his other hand over to release the strap but was met with resistance. It took a moment for his foggy brain to register it, looked over, far too slowly and found that his other hand was wrapped in a plaster cast from fingertips to elbow, and it too was strapped to the bed. He looked down at himself, someone had dressed him in a set of scrubs and laid a blanket over his legs, but sticking out of the bottom were his bare feet, and they were also strapped. Mark Snow and the embassy director were both at the foot of the bed looking pissed off.

He had no desire to speak to those two tools, so he focused back on Kara and tried to work out why on Earth she'd taken this moment to get all sensitive. And was that a bruise forming around her eye, where did that come from?

"What happened to your face?" he asked, his voice grating in his throat like it was made of sandpaper.

"This?" she waved at the bruise, "it's nothing." She still hadn't let go of John's hand and that meant whatever had happened must have really freaked her out. He remembered an explosion, and something about being captured, but he was too foggy to piece it together.

"What's with the straps Kara? I told you I wouldn't play into your kink," he tried to joke, but no one in the room laughed.

"What's the last thing you remember Reese?" Mark asked.

"I...," John's voice fell away as he tried to remember and failed. "Someone tried to take us out. With an RPG?"

"That was a couple of days ago John," Mark said.

Really? John wondered, because the pain in his ribs certainly felt fresh.

"You've been under a lot of pressure lately and the explosion was traumatic, you lost a friend in it, do you remember?"

John nodded, "Khaled," he remembered now.

"The doctors think you've been suffering Post-Traumatic Stress. And last night you had an episode, you thought you were back in Kandahar."

"I...," John was at a loss for words. He'd seen guys deal with PTSD before, guys that were jumpy, or particularly anxious about something that should have been trivial, there had been a corporal in his unit that had suffered night terrors, woke the whole base up with his screaming more than once. And sure, he had nightmares, few in his position didn't, but he'd never considered that he had PTSD. The truth was, for it to count as PTSD he'd always thought you had to feel something, and these days that was becoming harder and harder. He wasn't stressed, or miserable, certainly there was no anxiety, most of the time he was just numb with only intermittent and brief flashes of anger or pain.

The director patted the end of the bed in an awkward display of affection, "You need your rest John. We'll tell the doctor you're awake. Kara has volunteered to stay with you a while. Get well soon."

As the two men left the room, John turned his attention back to Kara, "I feel like there's something important I need to tell you."

"You thought there was a leak, you told us, we haven't found anything yet though."

He nodded, that sounded right. "Hey, what about letting me out of these restraints?" he asked, gesturing lamely with his trapped hands.

She shook her head, "I can't. Not until the doc gives you the all clear."

"Oh, come on Kara, I'm not.."

"Dangerous?" she finished for him. "John, you killed a police officer last night."

"I what?" John gasped.

"You were waving a gun around, he was trying to apprehend you. You thought you were back in Kandahar and that he was the enemy..."

"Shit," John closed his eyes and thudded his head back into the pillow.

"John, it's okay..." she started.

"No, it really fucking isn't," John croaked. "Get the fuck out of here Kara," he said in an almost whisper.

"John, it's..."

"I said, get the fuck out!" he yelled, rattling at the restraints. When he felt her hand slip from his, he wanted to cry, but he knew he wasn't worth the tears.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

2012 - Bridgeport

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

John jerked awake at the sound of the unexpected voice. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, he was supposed to be guarding Mustafa, but Joss had offered to stand outside the door and he'd thought he'd be okay to just sit for a minute.

He'd folded himself into a hard plastic chair at the foot of Mustafa's bed. He had no idea how long the man had been out of surgery, but it was daylight now so it must have been a while and he'd still yet to wake up. He looked pale and small in the bed, head swathed in bandages, but the readouts on the monitor beside him were strong and stable. It looked like John may not have picked security and paranoia over the man's life after all.

His attention turned to the people who had just entered the room. Lionel was the one who had spoken, dressed in jeans and a casual button down shirt, Harold hobbled in after him in with a bemused smile on his face, "Look who I found out in the parking lot," he gestured at the burly detective. Lastly, Joss entered and closed the door behind her. She stayed at the door, peering out at corridor through the slats in the blinds, not abandoning her post per se, but not wanting to miss out on the conversation that was about to happen either.

John blinked rapidly to try to clear some of the tiredness away, and sat up straighter in the uncomfortable chair, his bruised torso protested every movement, but it was just a bruised torso so he told himself to suck it up and ignore it.

Harold was carrying a briefcase and he came over to stand beside John so he could rest it on the deep window sill and open it up. He handed John two large brown envelopes. John slid out their contents for inspection. "Two identities, one for here, just covering the basics, enough to pass the insurance checks, a second more thorough for when we get him over the border."

John checked them, flicking through the passport, even though he knew if Harold had done them, they were bound to be perfect. "Thank you Harold. And the Detective's car?"

"Back where it belongs, after a detour into New Jersey."

"Thanks Finch. You know you would have made a good spy."

Harold snorted, "hardly," making John look up from his study of the passport to see that the smaller man had found his suit jacket that he'd dumped on the sill, and that he was running his fingers over the fresh bullet hole in the back.

John remembered they had another unexpected intruder in the room and turned to glare at him, this wasn't how it was supposed to go, operations like these, the fewer people knew what they were doing the better. "What are you doing here Lionel?" He tried to keep the accusation out of his voice but he was too tired.

"Finch told me where you'd be, I was worried," he shrugged with his hands in his pockets.

"Didn't think you cared Lionel."

"Yeah, you know I was still on that call last night? Listened to you get beat to shit, shot at! I don't know how Mr Vocabulary over there stands it," he jerked his head in the direction of Harold, who shot him a quizzical look at the use of the nickname. "I guess I had to come see for myself that you were still in one piece."

"Yeah?" He was irritated now, and glared at the two detectives, "What's with all the concern for my welfare all of a sudden? The phone calls, the 'going over your case' so that we could hang out, even though you clearly didn't need my help..."

Joss frowned, she disliked being busted, but John had known he was right about that one. It was a deception, from someone he'd trusted, and it had pissed him off. She took a deep breath before she spoke, "Look, you're exhausted. You were running yourself into the ground with this. Finch thought it was because there were links with Pakistan, he told us what happened out there and we were worried..."

"What?" John snapped, he kept his voice low but he seethed with hot anger, "my all-seeing employer told you I'd been sectioned? So much for privacy Finch!"

"What? No!" Joss exclaimed, "he told us your friend was killed."

Oh. Shit! John thought as he realised he'd given himself away. "Guard him!" he said, pointing at the man in the bed, as he stalked towards the door.

"John, where are you going?" Harold called.

"For a walk," he snapped and wrenched the door open, striding into the hall.

John's long legs carried him quickly through the halls and to the outside world. It was cold and had started to rain. He'd come out in just his shirt, and even that had a ragged hole burned into the back, so he was quickly soaked through and freezing, made worse by his lack of sleep. In fact, by the time he'd reached the parking lot, that lack of sleep was taking over and he stumbled slightly. He looked for a park or somewhere to sit, but it was just a jumbled collection of hospital buildings surrounded by suburbia. There was a church across the street though and so he gravitated there.

It was an impressive old building, Russian orthodox, if he had to guess at first glance, a world away from the small catholic one he'd grown up with. It wouldn't have looked out of place amongst the grand churches of Europe. He was about to go inside, it looked warm and inviting through the doorway, but then he stopped himself. He hadn't been in a church for a long time, didn't feel he deserved to anymore, so instead he just sat down on the cold stone steps and stared back towards the hospital. At least he was out of the wind and the rain.

He sat for a long time, not really thinking about anything in particular, while he tried to clear his head. Eventually though he saw a portly figure wrapped in a thick wool coat march across to him. He'd known someone would come and find him eventually, but the last person he expected it to be was Lionel.

He came and stood over John, looking down at him with a frown, "You shoulda gone inside, it's freezing out here."

John looked up at him, his furious expression from earlier had softened, but only a little. "Nah, out here is good."

"You afraid you gonna burst inta flames for all your sins? Yeah, you and me both pal." The detective sat down beside the spy. There was a long drawn out silence, as neither knew what to say.

"When was the last time you slept? In a bed?"

John didn't answer, he wasn't sure that he could remember.

"Look, Glasses only told us about your friend because he was worried about ya. As for whatever else went on, it's none of our business. My life ain't all been sunshine and roses, but I imagine you've seen stuff I can't even comprehend. The fact that you've struggled with it? Well, honestly it's a relief, because at times I thought you might be a killer robot sent from the future."

John laughed and managed a ghost of a smile, "So you don't think I'm an unhinged nut job then?"

Lionel looked at him and gave him a mock frown, "I've thought you were that since the moment I met you. I'm just saying you'd be crazy if you weren't a little crazy by now, if you know what I mean."

"Thanks Lionel. I don't say that enough." John said wearily.

"No, you do not." Lionel confirmed. "Come on, let's get back in there. They think your guy is about to wake up."  
***

2009 - Islamabad

Four fucking days and he was still confined to the fucking room. The doctors had needed a lot of convincing to even allow him out of his restraints, although it probably hadn't helped matters that he'd just been so angry all the time. When they'd first let him out of the cuffs, he'd gotten into an argument with the doctor and had slammed him against the wall in a fit of rage. Now, whenever anyone came to speak to him, there were at least two burly men present and syringes of sedatives on standby.

That night had come back to him in brief flashes only, nothing clear. Often it was hard to distinguish what he remembered from that night and what had been an older memory, dredged up from the vault in which he kept them and thrown in to add to the confusion. The one thing he had been clear on from the start though, was that this was too much of a coincidence to be true.

That's what he had been arguing with the doctor about, when he'd momentarily lost control. He was demanding another blood test, convinced that something had been done to him, but the doctor was insisting that they'd already done three and that they'd come up negative for any kind of known toxin. And at some point further blood tests just became pointless, as his body would have removed all trace of poisons anyway. All they'd had to suggest that any kind of chemical damage had taken place was an abnormal increase in aminotransferases enzymes relating to liver damage but this line of enquiry was soon shut down with a few pointed questions directed at previous injury history and his alcohol intake, the answers to which, quite frankly, pointed less towards his being drugged and instead reinforced the idea that he had temporarily lost it.

Too injured to work out, he had taken to pacing the room like a caged tiger and mentally torturing himself with his insecurities. Mark had brought him a few books to read, but he was unable to concentrate his attention on them, he was both restless and exhausted at the same time.

His pacing was interrupted by a knock at the door and then it opened wide before he could respond. He knew it was Kara by the way she'd opened it, she was the only one wasn't currently scared of him.

"Hey partner!" she said breezily. "We're getting you out of here." She hauled his kitbag into the room and dumped it at the foot of the bed. "You know they make these suitcases with wheels on now?" she grumbled.

"So that's it? I'm cleared?" John couldn't believe the relief he felt.

"Well, they want you back at Langley for a period of assessment. You did a bit more than just get into a bar fight." she pointed out, referring to an incident of her own a few years ago.

John shook his head, "No, we can't go back. We have stay here and find the leak."

"John," Kara spoke soothingly, "they've looked. There is no leak. If there is, it's no longer our problem. Come on, get changed. There's a military transport heading Stateside in an hour and there's a seat with your name on it."

"You're not coming with?"

Kara shrugged, "Mark and I have got some thing to do down in Greece. I know, right? All that history and stuff and you won't be there to appreciate it. I promise to tell you all about it. Well, not all about it," she clarified, because of course if he wasn't assigned to the mission he wasn't authorised to know the details. He felt it, the first sign that the Agency was starting to shut him out. It bothered him, but perhaps not as much as it should. But he couldn't argue with it, he knew when he was done.  
***

2012 - Bridgeport

When they got back inside they found that Joss was still on guard duty at the door, and Harold had pulled a chair up to Mustafa's beside and was going over the details of his new identity with him. As John entered, Mustafa sat up straighter in his bed. Some of the colour had come back into his cheeks although he still looked tired. "You're the man who saved me! Twice!" he said, recognising him instantly, "I cannot thank you enough."

"It's my job," John shrugged. There were still too many unanswered questions for this room to be all smiles and relief, even if it was good to see that there appeared to be no permanent damage to Mustafa.

"Yes, Mr Finch was just explaining."

"Those men who tried to take you. They were ISI. How did you get on the wrong side of Pakistani Intelligence?"

"I..." Mustafa sighed. "I'm gay."

"That's it?" Lionel exclaimed, "shit pal!"

"Not exactly," he looked at the room nervously. "Being gay in Pakistan is hard. It's illegal and I could go to prison, or worse. A few years ago an ISI agent asked me to do something for him. Just a simple thing and he would pay me a lot of money. So I did it, and I used the money to come to America. I didn't tell my family where I was but my brother-in-law found me. He said I brought shame upon my family, upon my wife," Mustafa had started to tear up at the confession. "He started blackmailing me, he said if I didn't come home then he would tell the ISI that I was telling everyone what I did for them. But I never told I swear!"

"As long as you follow the plan, they won't find you again," Harold assured. "They've seen you take a shot to the head, and once you leave here I can change the records to show that you died of your injuries. They'll stop looking for you and you can start a new life."

"You can finally be who you want to be," Joss smiled.

But John wasn't ready to let it go just yet, "What did you do for the ISI?"

"Nothing! I faked a blood test, that's it!"

"What?"

"Some American. He came into the hospital where I worked, with a high dose of psychotropic drugs in his system. All I had to do was forge the results so that his blood work was clean."

John felt his knees give out and he sank into the nearest chair. He rested his elbows on him knees and put his head in his hands. He felt a presence beside him, and then Joss' hand lay on his shoulder. He could hear Mustafa asking, "Hey, is he okay?" but he was too overwhelmed at the moment to pretend that he was.

"He's fine," Harold answered for him, "it's nothing that some sleep and a little time to heal won't cure. Come on John, I think our detectives can handle guarding Mr Jabir for now. Let me take you to a hotel."


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue

2009 - VA Psychiatric Rehabilitation Centre, near Langley, Virginia

"The CIA has made you good at lying. But you don't have to lie to me here." Doctor Stein said, watching his patient closely.

John sat on the sofa in a tee shirt and pair of sweatpants, a pair of slip on running shoes on his feet because he'd flat out refused to wear the slippers that had been suggested. They were fastened tight with strong elastic and a toggle, he hadn't been allowed anything with laces in, and for that he hated them even though the cast on his hand would have made laces impossible anyway. He hated them almost as much as he hated slippers, because slippers were for old men and sick people, and he was neither. Unfortunately there seemed to be some debate about that last one.

"I'm not lying," he insisted, staring at his stupid running shoes, "I really am fine."

"Oh, okay," the doctor answered sarcastically, "I'll write that in my report shall I? The Pakistani's really will be pleased, they're desperate to have you back so they can execute you for murdering a police officer."

John cringed at the words, but he supposed he deserved it. The doctor had been trying to gently get something out of him for days now, it was clearly time for blunter tactics.

"Look," the doctor sighed, "a lot of strings were pulled to get you out of there. I need to be able to give them something. If you don't work with me, I won't be able to sign you off, you won't ever be able to get back out into the field."

John laughed bitterly at that, which only made his broken ribs hurt all the more. "They won't want me back now. I bet Kara's started bullying my replacement already."

"Believe it or not, Mr Reese, a lot of people find your job stressful. Things aren't the way they used to be, it's not a problem to get help, and with your exemplary record I see no reason why you can't get your old job back, that is if you want it?"

John looked up at him then, and met the older man's eyes, "I'm not sure that by this point I'd be good for anything else."

The doctor gave a wan smile at the admission, finally he was getting somewhere, "And why do you feel that way John?"  
***

2012 - NYC

The Lyric Diner was quiet for a change, most of the early morning rush had gone by the time John stepped in. He scanned the room and found who he was looking for, although he hadn't expected to see all three of them.

"Starting a new breakfast club, Finch?" he asked with his usual half-smile. He sat down next to Joss, and opposite Lionel. Harold was in the opposite corner by the window, his briefcase on his lap. They'd let him his preferred spot, back to the wall, clear view of the room and the door. He'd never said, but instinctively they all knew he felt better with a clear line of sight.

"I felt it only fair that they should know," Harold explained cryptically.

John waited as the waitress served them coffee and brought Harold his tea, before asking, "Know what Finch?"

"That the Director of the CIA received an interesting package this morning. A thumb drive, containing proof that the embassy director in Islamabad conspired with Pakistani intelligence to allow certain rogue militant activities to continue under their watch, in exchange for some, quite hefty sums of money. It includes a memo that details an ISI asset finding out about the corruption and concerns that he was meeting with a CIA agent. There's no actual mention of the meet itself, although the dates line up. And although it was rather difficult to find, there's proof that the embassy director researched psychotropics from his secure server in the day before you were admitted to hospital. I'm afraid I couldn't spell it out for them without blowing Mustafa's cover, but I'm sure they can read between the lines."

John drank his coffee carefully as he took it all in, Joss' hand sneaked across the table and rested on his hand, the hand he'd once broken in his attempt to escape his hallucinations.

"So the asset was your friend?" Lionel confirmed. "And they discredited you for asking too many questions?"

"Five years as a translator embedded with US Special Forces in Afghanistan," Harold said, "he was a hero, just trying to do what was right for his country. For the world, actually."

It was more information than John would have given them. He'd never doubted Khaled's heroism, but it was nice to have it confirmed. The words made his eyes sting. "It was three years ago Finch," John pointed out, "imagine what else they've gotten away with in three years."

"I don't need to imagine, I've read it" Harold said sadly, "but we can only give it our all and hope it's enough. You did that John. And we got there in the end."  
***

2009 - VA Rehabilitation Centre, near Langley

"Hey partner, you ready to break out of here?" Kara smiled as she stood at the end of the swimming pool.

John got to the end of his lap and grabbed the side, gazing up at her. The cast had come off his arm a week previously and he'd been in the pool every day since, determined to enjoy at least one thing in his enforced stay in what he had to admit was a rather luxurious facility. The bruising on his ribs had faded to a mottled green by now and although he'd lost weight at first, all the swimming had brought his appetite back and he'd started to build up some muscle again.

"Kara, I wasn't expecting you. Langley said they were sending a car this afternoon."

"Yeah, well I missed you. You should have seen the guy they stuck me with while you were on this little holiday of yours, total Boy Scout. I want my old Boy Scout back, you were much more fun to tease."

Holiday, is that what we're calling it now? John thought bitterly, but he said nothing. He hauled himself out of the pool and grabbed the towel he'd left on a bench attached to the wall, "Let me just grab my stuff and let's go."

"Looking a little bit lean there, Reese. Come on, hurry up and we can grab some burgers on the way to Langley. There's a great little diner down the road..."

"Langley?" John ran the towel through his hair, "I thought we were going to a hotel."

"They've got us a new assignment if you're up to it. Barcelona, there'll be sun, sangria, that European culture and history stuff you like so much!" She rolled her eyes with mock boredom, "it'll be like the last few months never happened."

John nodded sadly, yeah, just like this never happened. Now wasn't that just like them, keep on pushing on and pretending the bad things never bothered you? He thought about protesting, thought about telling her he'd spent the last few months having it rammed into him that ignoring bad events was what caused things like this to happen in the first place, maybe even telling her that Langley could stuff it all together, he was out. But instead he just shoved it down and said, "Sounds good, sangria is on you!"

Kara laughed as he left to go change, "Sangria is on Langley! Have we got the best job in the world or what?"

THE END


End file.
